


I like the feel of you on my lips

by ziusura



Series: press on me; we are endless beings [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Impact Play, M/M, Non-Negotiated Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, dub-con, verbal berating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Funny enough, it was Stilinski that threw the first punch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I like the feel of you on my lips

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been on tumblr for a while (two months?) and I decided to throw it up on ao3 since it's definitely more than the drabble I intended for it to be. 
> 
> Written for a meme. Redweathertiger asked for kiss with a fist that turns into a nose kiss somehow. Original tumblr post [here](http://sensualstereks.tumblr.com/post/62027605324/jackson-stiles-kiss-w-a-fist-that-turns-somehow).
> 
> If mention of blood/bleeding squicks you out please avoid if you need to! For context: Jackson's lip is split as a result of punching and bleeds.

Funny enough, it was Stilinski that threw the first punch. 

Jackson didn't expect it; why  _would_  he expect it. It's fucking Stilinski. Sure the kid had a sharp tongue but he wasn't exactly high on the use of physicality list; there was a reason he sat the bench in lacrosse and it had nothing to do with his game intelligence or speed. 

Jackson reared back with the force of it, sparks of pain shooting across his face from where Stilinski's knuckles had gotten him in the lip. He raised a careful hand and tentatively touched his lip, hot and swollen beneath his fingertips. The pads drug across something raised and open, and Jackson winced when he pressed in. Fuck. He was bleeding. 

"Don't fucking talk about Scott that way," Stilinski huffed out, breathing hard and still half in his punching form against the lockers like an idiot, and Jackson zeroed in on the blood smeared across Stilinski's knuckles. Kid was fucking  _dead_. 

He bolted forward, and Stilinski had fast enough reflexes that he was able to shove Jackson slight off center, but they weren't nearly fast enough in the end. Jackson had a hand around his throat and was pressing him against the lockers before he could even really blink. 

"You don't like it when I talk about your werewolf boyfriend that way? Give me a Goddamn  _break_." 

Stilinski snarled and his hands scrabbled around Jackson's wrist, but Jackson held fast and tight. His blunt nails started digging crescent shaped dents into Jackson's flesh, but he didn't care. Stilinski would have to try harder if he wanted him off. 

Harder, apparently came in the form of spit. Jackson barely saw the glob before it left Stilinski's mouth and hit him square on the cheekbone. And Jackson? Jackson couldn't fucking have that at all, so he nailed Stilinski in the gut with his free hand and pressed closer. 

"Try that again and you're dead," Jackson spit out between his teeth, and Stilinski only gave him a smirk for a warning before his head was coming forward and slamming into Jackson's busted lip. 

Jackson let go. What else was he supposed to do when he had that much pain radiating out of his face? It was a mistake of course, and Jackson had maybe twenty seconds or so before Stilinski kneed him in the gut and took him down onto the tiled floor. All of which Jackson spent pawing at his mouth and trying to process the fact that his lip was fucking splurting now, blood dripping onto the off-white tiles like it was raining. 

Stilinski may not have had a lot of physical mass to throw around, but he was slippery, especially when Jackson was still a little wet from his shower. The moment Jackson thought he had finally pinned Stilinski to the ground, he was suddenly half over Jackson and trying to pin  _him_. Needless to say, Jackson lost his towel and they were both covered in his blood by the time Stilinski got a hand around his neck and trapped Jackson's hips beneath his pelvis. 

"I don't know why I never did this before," Stiles said, punctuating his words with a sharp squeeze to Jackson's neck, though it wasn't hard enough to obstruct his breathing.

Stiles was breathing hard and glaring with more venom than Jackson had ever seen in his eyes, and Jackson insulted Scott all the fucking time in front of Stiles. But more than that, his eyes were wide and dark with only a thin brown ring showing around them, and Jackson felt frozen beneath them.

"You're fucking  _weak_ ," he spit out, and Jackson felt the retort bubble into his mouth before it died out. He wanted to argue against it more than anything. His brain was protesting, but his body was loose, pliant and unwilling to move for anything.

But he  _was_  weak. He was bleeding out, naked, and pinned by his fucking throat of all things by a weakling. He should've been able to beat Stiles with his eyes shut and his hands tied behind his back, and yet he was on the ground and trapped in his own body. 

"Nothing to say, Jackson? You're fucking  _pathetic_." 

Jackson's head slammed back into the tile with the force of his words, breath coming out in harsh pants through his nose. There was something low and dark churning in his gut, and Jackson was scared to examine it too closely. 

Stiles huffed, clearly frustrated, and Jackson screwed his eyes shut, unable to look Stiles in the face. He shifted then to do  _something_  (just what, Jackson didn't know) and the rough denim of Stiles' jeans rubbed right against Jackson's dick, half hard and undoubtedly interested in more of that. 

" _Shit_ ," Jackson hissed, voice half catching on a moan, and Stiles went tense above him.

"God, you--you fucking  _like_  this," Stiles said, incredulous, and his hand slid down to Jackson's collar bone. He dug his nails in carefully, like he was testing something out, and Jackson sobbed. 

He couldn't be fucking crying. There was no way in hell  _Stilinski_  was making him cry, and yet... The dark whatever in his gut condensed until it was small and thick, and it was too much. Too focused. Too hard. And Jackson wanted it  _out_.

"You're a little bitch, Jackson. A fucking bitch." 

Stiles' leg slid between his and pressed down hard, and Jackson's hands flew up around Stiles' back. He wanted to dig his fingernails into his stupid fucking plaid shirt, scratch until the fabric ripped and he made Stiles bleed, but more than anything he just wanted to hold on and feel his heat scald his palms. 

"Look at me," Stiles said, but Jackson squeezed his eyes shut harder. He didn't want to look up and see himself reflected in his eyes. 

"Look at me, Jackson," Stiles said harder, and he punctuated it with slap against Jackson's cheek, right where he spit. Jackson's eyes snapped open then, and the pit embedded in his gut pulsed in a way that sent pleasure up his spine. 

Stiles was panting and flushed, his eyes blown wide and his focus completely on Jackson. He nearly let out another sob. 

Stiles swallowed, and Jackson tracked the movement dazedly before his eyes snapped back to Stiles'. 

"You did fucking awful in the game today," Stiles said lowly, and Jackson found himself nodding his head. Yeah, he did do fucking awful. He let Scott get the ball and score; the opponents got in a scoring chance that Danny nearly missed when Jackson fumbled the ball halfway through the game; and he let fucking  _Stilinski_  get the better of him in the locker room directly after.

Stiles swallowed again, and punched him hard in the face. Jackson definitely felt his eyes tear up after that one, and his face pulsed in time with the  _thing_  in his gut. 

"Fuck," he stuttered out, his lips pulling with the blood drying on his lips as they tried to form the shapes of the word. He was so fucking hard, and Stiles was  _still_  staring at him. 

His hips ground up helplessly, searching for the heat and the pressure and the  _hurt_  Stiles' denim covered thigh offered. And Stiles delivered, humping forward until they kept up a basic but frantic rhythm. 

Stiles was hard too, he was  _enjoying_  this too, and it was that discovery that had Jackson pressing his face into Stiles' neck. Not to bite or suck or anything, but just to be. To feel surrounded and covered. 

"Your p-pass to Isaac was disgusting," Stiles groaned out, and Jackson rolled his hips harder against Stiles' leg. "What if they had scored, Jackson? 

The dark rock in his gut pulsed faster and harder, and Jackson was so fucking close. But he needed...he needed.

"Say you're sorry, Jackson. To the team, me, Scott. You almost let us down." 

"I'm sorry," Jackson said hoarsely, tears rolling down his cheeks and onto Stiles shirt. 

"To whom," Stiles said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question. He wasn't asking.

He grabbed Jackson's shoulders and forced him down onto the floor, and Jackson felt so exposed under Stiles' gaze. Fucking hell, he was going to come. 

"To the team," he said evenly. 

"And?"

"To Scott," he forced out, and the words tasted hot and hard like the swirling in his stomach. 

" _And_?"

"You," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Stiles." 

Then Stiles raised his fist and punched him hard in the mouth, and Jackson fucking lost it. The dark rock in his stomach exploded like fireworks, shooting vibrating _good_  through his body until Jackson was one burning, melting mess. 

He was warm, compliant, but no less focused when his head came back. Stiles was crouched over his hips with his jeans pushed down as far as they would go and his hand vigorously working his dick. His head was pushed forward so Jackson couldn't see his face well, but his eyes were screwed tight and his mouth was wide open and letting out stupid sounding half-moans. And Jesus Christ, he was fucking covered in cum. Jackson's of course, but he didn't feel embarrassed about it. Mostly just sort of warm. 

Stiles came a second later, his entire body shaking with it and his mouth pressed to Jackson's shoulder and sucking like he was trying to force out Jackson's soul through his skin. It wasn't until Stiles pulled himself up onto his hands and knees, a goofy grin on his face, and leaned forward to press a sloppy open mouthed kiss to Jackson's nose that he realized the full extent of what they'd done. 

Jackson tensed up, the good feelings long gone, and Stilinski noticed almost immediately. 

"Jackson, are you okay?" he asked, his eyes hard and searching. But fuck that noise. If he wanted comfort he wouldn't have gone to Stilinski for...for whatever _that_ was.

"Get the fuck off me, Stilinski." 

Stilinski punched him in the mouth for the fourth time that afternoon and stood up to tuck his dick back into his pants, making sure Jackson knew the full extent of his disgust. 

Jackson was disgusted with himself too so his stupid fucking glare didn't do much to change that any. 

He rolled over the moment Stilinski went to the bathroom portion of the locker room to wipe Jackson's jizz off his clothes, and his muscles protested against their placement on the hard tiled floor. They could get over that though.

He fucking... _Stilinski_. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, his mouth fucking hurt, and his heart gave a painful twinge when the locker room door slammed shut in the distance. Jackson refused to cry.


End file.
